Best Casually Poems
It was in September that Poetry first came to me -
a time when summer’s embers, for me had not yet caught fire
until, that is, Poetry walked casually toward me
wearing bell bottoms and a young man’s angel face.
Visited by such exquisite grace, I felt the spark of sweet desire’s flame.
Our kisses in the night made my spirit sing; the flame leapt higher.
Yes, a night to remember is what my angel boy gifted me,
and though the fall was near, I was in the springtime of my youth.
The years have come and gone gone gone
Memories of my old flames are cinders now, softly glowing In my mind.
They cannot be revived to brightly glow again; they are the past.
After Poetry walked in all those years ago,
a few decades passed. One day I felt the urge to put pen to paper.
Recalling nostalgically the fire that once had so consumed me,
tender words flowed from me; passion was reborn!
Recreating fantasy, I became the lady who danced the unicorn,
who lived, and who still lives romance, again and again and again,
for the passion now is in my pen!
It was in September that Poetry first came to me.
I just didn’t know it then.
My poetry garden of late has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted and now vehemently
raged among adjoining unmade weed-filled beds of subjects and verbs.
Modifiers that had been dutifully arranged and carefully
kept in check upon their trellises now dangled everywhere.
Sentences had spilled out of their beds in fragments or running
on and on while cases of subjectives and objectives shamelessly
intermingled and were now easily mistaken one for another.
Grammar, whose care I had entrusted to first, second and third
persons, lay in shameless disarray, as if no one could tell the difference.
Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives, many
of which had split. I recalled with a sigh how many years it had taken
me to tightly bind them. [To bind them tightly is what I meant.]
Commas were everywhere, rendering those in appropriate
position practically unrecognizable, which I suppose was better than
what had happened to the capitals, now completely ignored.
No reason for the rhyme with forms confused or misplaced altogether.
My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl
An unfortunate mis-spell had been cast and provoked an infestation,
such that many of my friends had departed without comment.
The contest entry was blocked, so I bowed my head in shame,
turned around and shuffled silently through the exit marked N/A.
Posted July 24, 2014
'Let the Pens Flow - Narrative' Contest
Jenish Somadas
"Aurora Spills"
Aurora spills like a waterfall
light from the eyes
saltwater tears
crocodilian
scaled in the weight of worth
a drop in the ocean of fate
breaks the seaweed fields of stories
they wave her in
rippling time away
fingertips dance mesmerising
the stinging strangers
wrapped around her legs
treading water in deep
infested notions
the coolness of
irreverent nonchalance
romantic or not
pulls her under covers
like warm blankets
heavy comfort
calls the broken
floating towards
the shabby matrix
new gates of life open
mirrors crack like eggs
the vision reflects
both light and dark
demon and saint
their remnants
embers, still
in the coldness
of prickly gloaming
like glow worm glen
fireflies red and glowing
sparks ignite
a rapturous bushfire
from cinders
billy tea leaves overturned
empty cups read
the yolk of a heart
never lies
fried casually
by the over easy
in shallow pans
of poetry
under microscopes
of blithe mordant critique
minute shards of gold
are slowly sifted
from the flotsam dross
some wisdom found
in the muddy fertile mind
shooting up
from 6ft underground
like small green plants
growing under rocks
with centipedes and
the petulant poison of spiders
in pink reflection
insurgence blooms
war never waits
silently the Pandoras smile
understanding all and nothing
of a small life distended,
swelling love
for that which was stolen
where bursting broken blue weeds
undo frozen jewels
diamonds sharp for the cutting
shiny words spells of insanity
delicious moments
melting time swallowed
spoken without voice
listening to ghosts
scratching through walls
where life floods
from glass boxes
coffins of buried treasure
banished
kaleidoscope colours
overgrowing
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“The Lady in the Lake”/ Elysian Fields
https://youtu.be/IjX8xfZ7sg0
“Out of whose womb came the ice
And the hoary frost of heaven
Who hath gendered it
The waters are hid as with a stone
And the face of the deep is frozen”
LYRICS/ “The Lady in the Lake”, Elysian Fields
https://genius.com/Elysian-fields-lady-in-the-lake-lyrics
Armed with chainsaws in the field, two young men are shirtless guests
with shoulders bronzed by sun and sweat.
The timbre in the August sun has scattered birds and stirred unrest
The tree they'll slay has leaves of gold,
lacing branches frail and old, - but now its time is spent
Rising from his afghan nest, a man peers out the window glass
to witness as the death unfolds.
As one who brought the seedling home, he waits to see the giant fall
He holds his breath, but not his tears. Age and illness hems the years.
And just as earth might moan in pain, the tree comes tumbling down
There was a day, not long before, ....before his war began
Back then he could lift a saw like that, ..hold it skillfully, carefully, casually
Angle down, - angle up, - cut a wedge, - hear it crack
Now there's pathos in dust-driven clouds
that shadows an earth that has lost its sun
It trembles now to catch its breath.
And branch by branch it lays to rest the leaves of courage, a golden crest,
that was shelter, home, a fortress blessed, a place to lean to find solace
A tree, ... nor a man cannot be defined
by disease, confinement, by age or time
A tree falls down. It is nature's plan
to open the field, while clearing the land
What came before, grows new today,
The void that's left cannot be filled,
and tears we shed cannot be stilled
His leave will make a louder sound
The dust will rise. Trees burn to ash
What matters most is never lost
Oh yes, how it shatters the fragile heart!
Oh God, how it matters, how could it not?
- But, the man and the tree have earned a rest
____________________________________________________________
6/6/17
A.W. Nutter
Pounding the pulpit with his fist
Sweat dripping from his brow
Preaching about Gods top ten list
The sinful Jews with their golden cow
Same old messages still in place
Pastor Jack’s patterns haven’t changed
Fear written on the altar boy’s face
A secret meeting has been arranged
Prayers end, the congregation stands
The pastor and boy move outside
Warmly shaking everyone’s hand
Wolf in sheep clothing able to hide
I casually walk across the street
Viewing the church pews now empty
The pedophile has made a quick retreat
Concealed in Satan’s, den of iniquity
Quietly, I traverse the wooden stairs
Listening at the door to the crying child
Pastor doing damage only God can repair
How many children has this demon defiled
Stepping through his unlocked door
A look of surprise from Pastor Jack
Dropping the naked child to the floor
Realizing his first sin, had come back
Quickly helping the boy get dressed
Time to end his night frights and screams
To Pastor Jack’s head my gun is pressed
The child pulls the trigger ending his dreams
His face aglow with the purity of light
From sending his tormentor to hell
Walking out of the church into the night
Brothers with a secret that we'll never tell
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
I have found myself at the threshold of death on several occasions. Each time I managed to
look it in the eye, doff my hat and say, “I’ll catch you up the trail.” This is not to say that I
am some special breed of hombre that casually defies death, for there have been many who
have gone the way before me and managed the confrontation in heroic decorum.
Nevertheless, death is not some evil state of being that only the brilliant or daring may defy;
nor is it a release from the severity of life. If anything, death is the threshold of eternity. Life
provides all known qualities, conditions, trials and tribulations that we encounter throughout
the fruition of our purpose.
Oh, death is not the enemy, for life provides our foes,
The ills, disease and suffering… the countless other woes;
For this is as it was ordained since Earth was yet to be,
When life evolved on other planes, the eye will never see.
We all embrace our time and grow in body, mind and soul.
We foster wisdom, strength and faith, fulfilling every role.
Prepared or not, the time will come, our form will waste away,
While life goes on, as is ordained by He who plans the way.
No, death is not the enemy, an end that one should fear.
It’s but a threshold for the soul to doff its mortal gear,
While life transcends its bond with Man to dwell forevermore
With He, whose force conceived all life and is its very core.
they’re sensitive my words
exposed wires
like veins hidden
under the scars
of too many verbal attacks
like swarms of vampire bats
who puncture the night
turn the downpour red
you’ve never been able to stay on key
or open doors that needed one
like the beating one under your breast
with the rusted bars and the rusted lock
living in the city
alone is your state of mind
where once you found
the company to be friendly
where you could block those thoughts
travelled in the dark memories of your existence
and the only light was the bright white smile
you so casually hid behind
your casual stiff pose that fooled no one
not for a nickel or a dime
where glass although smoother than ice
cracked under your sharpened blades
it was there your pretty face resided
ugly and broken from that perspective
until you pulled out
your pencil and paper
until you placed people
and moved them
taught them to talk
saw something in that
for a little while you turned off the tap
suddenly attracted a crowd
one or two even saw beyond your guise
felt fine just to be you
for a length of time
before you fell
on the pavement
buried
in the concrete
oh too real
you were there
you were gone
and never regained your balance
life as easy as it comes
was too difficult
couldn’t explain
how you managed to grow old
sitting singular in your unlit corner
where nothing came of your success
or of your kind words
from your kind lips
and still kind
hopefully
to the bitter end
My poems are words with soul - Silent One.
As a monotone morning sketches
charcoal trees under
smoke filled foggy skies,
rain casually falls,
sliding down slate roofs,
causing havoc for traffic
on bustling roads.
Red lights seem to shimmer,
shining through shades of grey,
as the sound of raindrops drip
against my BMW's black bonnet,
my mind drifts nonchalantly,
discarding beeping horns and FM beats.
I ponder
is it an act or is it an art
this thing they label as life,
living with a formula formed and forged
from a mix of experiences and emotions.
I begin to question myself.
(why do we do that?)
I seem to have adopted a sense of vulnerability,
fusing feelings of fragility,
since my hair infused into silver (yes I chose silver over grey) -
something my father warned against.
But I'm not as tough as him,
although he wasn't half the man I am...
Yet what I have seen and heard,
has ultimately made me who I am today
and in all the suffering I have
always searched for the light -
Rumi was right.
Maybe I'm too open minded,
too fair in this field of selfish spirits.
Maybe I'm not loyal enough to my beliefs,
which contradict my moral compass
and philosophical projections,
but I've never claimed to be saint.
My soul is telling me to shut up..
I've always wondered if I'll ever be understood..
At least I understand me - but is that any consolation?
It's not as simple as wisdom accumulating.
Sensitivity of a smile can never be underestimated.
You have to peer beyond the verbal,
non verbal - comprehend the action.
Sometimes I feel unloved,
many times invisible,
yet I seem to come alive in loneliness.
Would I be a plaintiff or defendant
in a court of your judgment?
I will always represent myself.
Words with speech have never been true confessions,
as my thoughts are too deep,
sometimes too unreliable,
that's why I never pen them down -
it scares my soul (who tells me again to shut up).
I wonder if I make sense. Soul calls it nonsense.
Green flashing circle says I can go.
An abrupt end to contemplation.
Sadly grey tones and
tints of tiredness remain.
Simple Musing
8 December 2023
She morphs into a sultry Summer's morn
garbed in a cloak of alabaster fog:
gossamer thin, and casually worn.
And echoing the croaks of a bullfrog:
She stops to carry on a dialogue,
with croaks too numerous to catalog.
Slipping on Her slippers of sparkling dew:
She inks an ebony horizon red;
as the sun rises in a sky of blue.
Shadows get resurrected from the dead:
while spiders dangling from a silken thread
spin dream-catcher webs that fill flies with dread.
Nature's a wizard at staging effects;
like vermilion sunsets, jungles of green,
and vivid colors of birds and insects.
Wherever we go, She's already been:
let's keep Her rivers, seas, and oceans clean:
Her mood can change; She's not always serene.
I hear Her whisper secrets to the wind:
like Spring's approaching, or the ice has thinned.
Hearts like ours will cross our silent yearning
and dance with lonely wishes and dreams
to find the longing realm of love
Like vagabonds, we will dance on empty streets
of false contentment and illusion...until
Love finds us worthy to nourish our souls
and welcome us
Guiding us into a luminous fervor
of rapidly pounding heartbeats
breaking free from bonds of tethered despair
as we cradle in our palms the burning hope of yearning
at long last found,
throbbing from each kiss melted by hunger and set loose
from the deepest cavern of starved emotion
kept for so long
hidden away from the untrusted words of false sweetness
where we guarded our heart's precious passions
that would have brought madness to our souls
if stolen or casually thrown away
Love found us worthy in its own time
and allowed us to share the beauty of our hearts
to become one heartbeat and yearn no more
12/18/20
This is really kind of a sad story
But please sit yourself down
For the words I'm going to bestow upon you
Will make you feel your watching a drunken clown
As I bow to gracefully greet you
My silly hat suddenly slips from my head
As I look to the ground and try to focus on it
I feel as if I should have stayed home in bed
Bending over I slowly reach for it
Then feel my face suddenly kissing the ground
Now the happy smile that I painted on my face
Has been smeared into a big ugly frown
Standing back up and trying to gather myself
I slowly begin to reach into my empty hat
But the dove that was supposed to be hidden in there
Is no longer where it should be at
So I reach to my sleeve for some flowers
Only to notice they are no longer there
I happen to pull out some fine ladies undies
To my amazement I think,what a nice pair
Then I reach to my other sleeve for something
Though so afraid of what it might be
I pull out a picture of my drunken self standing
In a photo box by a bar,casually taking a pee
In such embarassment I then begin to stumble
These big floppy shoes are too heavy for me today
I then reach into my pocket to find this here poem
Leaving me wonder,how will I to pay off my bar tab this way
Danny Boy Kearley:1-14-13
Not at all a true story..Ha,ha...
Just some silly words from my head(Hic-up)
:o)
Thick white clouds
Retracing posture
Atop the layers of earth;
Foggy shrouds of white
Overclouded landscape
Clogging the sunlight
In blurry unclearness.
In brown faded bushes
Lies inhalations of dryness,
Catchy like the gasoline
In simple lit strikes
On matchboxes;
Spreading fierce fires
To four cornered angles
On grassy fields.
From silty bits of soil
Hovers clouds of dust,
Distributed casually
By several printed steps
Of slippers and rotating air.
The echoes of the wind
Screams with concurrent whirl,
Stirring up particles
In fiery harsh voices.
Innermost in the terrain
Glares cracking every way,
As the dryness sucks away
Final surviving drops of moist,
From pores of skin surfaces
And wooden doors.
Thence, in customary shrinking
Of shriveling leaves and bushes
Prowls the reptiles, fleeing away
In untiring searches
For cooler comforting abodes,
Resting forevermore
To the swift slashing cutlass
Of the cautious hunter.
When he emigrated to North Dakota
Daddy came to help fill needed quota
Of young, strong men of honest worth
For untamed land at its new birth.
He met my mother, strong as he,
Raised seven kids including me.
He broke wild mustangs to the halter
And from cold or heat would never falter.
The settlers in this brand new land
Weren’t looking for the wild cow-hand,
The drifter who’d collect his pay,
Then casually be on his way.
Some would then join an outlaw band,
Before the law came to the land.
Though their kind earned infamous glory,
Men like my dad were the real story.
North Dakota had only been a state,
Ten years when Daddy tested fate.
He left Eastern standards and aesthetics,
Armed only with his strong work ethics.
He and his kind would build the schools,
And churches and towns and follow rules.
It took big men to build the west.
I claim my dad one of the best.
He homesteaded in nineteen hundred one
And that is how the west was won.
the blood of love leaks out
through this punctured
saddened wound
bleeding hurt unspoken
cries for help unheard,
no surgeon could ever help
the shocking pain of but a word
how one so casually inflicts
such wounds upon those
they have once told
of their undying eternal love
held tight those two bodies
as she wanted so to hold
yeah, love can be quite nasty,
so disrespectful of your heart
and torture you forever
until from life, you should depart